


Easter Sunday (13x21 Coda)

by interstitial



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Breathplay, But Your Mileage May Vary Considerably, Canon Temporary Character Death, Don't Try This At Home, Episode: s13e21 Beat the Devil, I Consider the Ending Hopeful, Implied Lucifer/Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Minor canon divergence, Porn with Feelings, Terrible Terrible Feelings, Various Impracticalities Handwaved Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 13:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14594142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstitial/pseuds/interstitial
Summary: Sam is dead, and then he's not. It's not the improvement one might imagine.





	Easter Sunday (13x21 Coda)

**Author's Note:**

> **Breathplay is even more dangerous than people think, and can lead to stroke or cardiac arrest without warning. Absolutely never let someone put a hand, or anything else, around the front of your neck.**

Sam wakes before his alarm goes off. The clock' says six twenty-seven; early when they're not on a case. He slept well though, and wants time for a run before he starts in on today's share of cross-referencing the Men of Letters archives. Might as well get up; he can sleep when he's dead.

He stretches the stiffness out of his back, brushes his teeth, and splashes water on his face. Dean's not up yet, but the coffee pot's got a timer and the Raspberry Mocha Delight Dean bought him as a joke is perversely delicious.

Outside the bunker's walls, the day is crisp and sunny. The leaves are at their foliage peak, burning reds and brilliant oranges lighting up the sky like stained glass. Sam jogs down route 130 slow and easy, hits a brisker pace on 1261. A patch of ash drops yellow leaves like confetti as he passes underneath. A leaf lands in his hair, another on his shoulder. The trees will be bare in a week or two, and it occurs to Sam that, barring some disaster even worse than the usual, he'll be here to see it. He'll still live in this same weird underground bunker, run this same route, see these same ash trees, stark and lifeless as winter rolls in. Spring will come, and maybe he'll still be here, and he'll run under these very same trees, cloaked in little green buds and pure white blossoms.

They've lived in the bunker eight months already. He was at Stanford longer, and with Amelia, but they'd both felt like temporary ports in a storm. The bunker... he's not sure. He knows Dean thinks of it as home.

Dean's awake and in the kitchen when Sam gets back.

"Guess what kinda case I found," he calls out as Sam walks by on his way to the shower room. He's puttering around with measuring cups and a mixing spoon.

“Um, magically appearing pie?”

“Nope.”

Dean isn't usually an early riser, and he looks positively bouncy.

“A haunting at the World's Largest Ball of Twine?”

“Nah, dude, its cheerleaders," Dean laughs, "Is that the best case ever, or what?"

Dean is wearing a black Metallica T-shirt, black boxer briefs, and the stupid slippers that came with the dead guy robe. His hair is a rumpled, sleepy mess, and even though he's only making breakfast, he's somehow got that competence thing going on, the one where he makes the hard look easy and the easy look like no one in the world could do it as well as him. It's a little distracting.

"Cheerleaders," Sam says. Repetition is always a good stalling tactic while he tries to get his brain back online.

"Well, cheerleaders' remains, and they're missing. But close enough. Gotta be ghouls, and guess what that means?"

"Tell me you're not gonna say hot ghoul cheerleaders. Even you couldn't be that gross."

Dean's face lights up in a contended grin. He scoops up a generous finger-full of whatever batter he's making, and sticks it in his mouth, licks his finger clean and makes a vague _meh, good enough_ sound. When he goes back to stirring, there's a spot of batter he missed at the corner of his mouth, and Sam can't look away from it.

"Don't be a prude, Sammy. Not like I'm gonna bang 'em or nothin'." Dean reaches into the cupboard for a baking pan. It's on the bottom shelf, and leaning down shows off his- well, honestly?- very perfect ass. Sam is beginning to get an uncomfortable sense of deja vu. Didn't they do a cheerleader case before? How many can there be?

"All I'm saying is, if we gotta get beat to death by monsters all the damn time, might as well be hot ones in tiny uniforms. Muffins'll be done in a half hour. Go take a shower, dude, you reek."

It's where Sam was going anyway.

-*-*-

The bunker's shower room is a testament to the Men of Letters' mastery of either magic or plain old civilian utilities piracy. It's been seventy-plus years since they've done whatever they did, and the showers still have endless free hot water and pressure like a rain storm.

Sam soaps himself up and lets the warm water sluice down his body and wash away the muscle tension from his run. It's quiet except for the white noise of the spray. Sam lathers his hair, tips back his head, and closes his eyes.

He feels pretty good. Relaxed. He's been sick recently, he thinks, something case-related.

When he reaches for the details, they slide away from his grasp like minnows below the surface of a lake. The past and future feel weirdly interchangeable. He's happy, he is, but an uneasy familiarity sits inside his belly like a stone. The muffins are blueberry, and Dean is going to serve them with eggs over easy and enough bacon to cause a heart attack.

First though, Dean will- Sam opens his eyes and sure enough; there Dean is. He's naked, standing just outside the spray, watching Sam with hooded eyes. His skin is speckled with goosebumps, and he's half hard, his cock flushed and heavy against his thigh. Sam's dick twitches in response and Dean grins a lazy, feral smile. The feeling of deja vu is overpowering.

"Dean, have we. Have we done this before? Like, all of this-" Sam gestures around the shower room vaguely.

Dean ignores Sam's question.

"Turn around, Sam. Lemme wash your back."

Sam turns around, and faces into the spray. Water runs off his hair and over his face. It blinds him, and he doesn't mind. Dean comes up behind him, presses the length of his body against Sam's back while he reaches past Sam for the soap. Dean's cock feels harder already, poking at the back of Sam's thigh, than it looked just a moment ago. The day is perfect. Sam will worry about whatever else later.

Dean washes Sam's back with his soapy hands. They travel a slippery path across Sam's shoulders, over his scapulae, meander slowly down his spine. Dean nuzzles at the base of Sam's neck while he kneads Sam's muscles, sputtering and laughing when the water running off Sam's skin gets in his mouth. Sam shakes his head like a dog, so his hair sheds water all over Dean's face, and Dean laughs again and bites Sam's shoulder, none too gently, until Sam moans.

" 'f you don't wanna get fucked, just say the word, dude," Dean threatens, " 'cause I got plenty of better things to do, I'll have you know."

Sam bows his head down, smiling, and Dean nips at the vertebrae where Sam's neck meets his upper back. It makes Sam shiver, pulls little whining noises out of him that he can't be bothered to be embarrassed by.

"I got important laundry to do, Sam. And Baby needs her wiper blades changed. Never know when it's gonna rain."

Dean's hands glide slick trails down Sam's back, his thumbs press against the base of Sam's spine. He shows no signs of leaving to do the laundry, thank god. His massage moves lower, fingers spanning over Sam's butt, kneading Sam's glutes, and gliding along the crease between his ass and the back of his thighs.

Sam starts to turn; he's getting too much, and not giving back, but Dean holds him still by the hips.

"I want to," he says. His voice is rich and low, and full of desire.

So Sam lets him. He stands still, lets Dean touch him. Lets Dean take care of him, own him that way.

"Put your hands on the wall."

He does.

"Little lower."

He does that too.

Water pounds against his shoulders. He has to keep his head down to keep from breathing the shower's spray. He spreads his legs apart, and Dean pulls on his hips experimentally until Sam's butt is tight against Dean's pelvis, and Dean's cock is rocking up past Sam's hole, hard along the crack of his ass. Dean lays his chest along Sam's bent back, holds Sam close, both of them slippery in the soap suds and water as Dean moves.

By the time Dean's hand snakes around to touch Sam's cock, Sam is hard as iron. Dean's grip is firm and slow, base and up, tip and back, gentle rhythm in time with his body rocking against Sam's from behind.

"You like that, Sammy?" As if Sam ever hasn't. Sam's warm all over, inside and out. Heat is pooled low in his pelvis, but even over the pounding of the water, he can feel the warmth of his sex flush too, on his cheeks, and in the pulse in his neck. He won't come this way- too slow- but it's fine, perfect. It's like being hypnotized, and he loses himself in it, not really sure for how long, until eventually Dean takes his hands off Sam and pulls away.

There's clattering from the shower rack, and Dean's voice, still behind him, complaining, "How many kinds of shampoo does one man need?"

Sam uses the time to adjust his position and shake out his legs. His arms are starting to ache, and his hands against the shower wall are tingly with impending pins and needles. He glances back over his shoulder and has just enough time to see Dean grinning, holding up two different bottles- neither of which is shampoo- before his wet bangs fall in his eyes and he has to look away again.

"Want me to kill some of these for you?" Dean asks, "No wonder your hair always looks possessed."

Dean's hands come back silicone sloppy and cold. Sam shivers where Dean touches him, and Dean touches him everywhere; Sam's dick, his balls, his belly when Dean hugs him, the peaks of his hip bones, the crack of his ass; all slick as satin, chilled for an instant, then warm again as the shower's hot water beads up and rolls off his skin. Dean's calloused hands are soft from the lube too, petting and rubbing, soft and slippery and sure.

Dean opens him up- jacks Sam with a purpose now with one hand, slides his fingers inside Sam with the other. Two right away. Sam likes it like that; the discipline of forced relaxation, breathing into it, all his other muscles tight. Sam bucks his hips, rides Dean's fingers hard. He pushes back until the web of Dean's thumb is flush against Sam's taint. Sam's cock jerks in Dean's grasp. He can feel his orgasm approaching, building in his body like an electric current.

“Nnnn, Dean, Dean,” Sam moans. It means _stop right this second and fuck me before it's too late,_ and Dean translates correctly. His hands are suddenly gone, and Sam whines, but Dean's kissing him again, nose buried in Sam's hair, tongue licking at his neck, and then the head of Dean's cock pushes blunt against Sam's hole, and Sam sighs in relief and gives way.

Dean sinks into Sam slow, making room for himself inside Sam's body. Sam closes his eyes and relishes the drag of Dean's shaft against his rim, the fullness of Dean thick inside him, the little sparks of pleasure from the pressure on his prostate. When Dean bottoms out, he just holds there steady, with his balls against Sam's ass, until Sam squirms, looking for more. Then he inches his cock nearly all the way out, slides back in, starts to build up a deep, lazy rhythm.

Sam was close to the edge before Dean even got inside him. Now he's so worked up he both wants it to go on forever, and also wants to get off as soon as humanly possible- preferably yesterday. His balls are tight up against his body, and his lonely cock is hard and throbbing. When he blinks the water out of his eyes and looks down through the shower's spray, he can see how tight the skin of his cockhead is, how prominent the ridge is and the veins along the shaft.

"Dean, Dean, c'm on," he begs, and writhes on Dean's cock.

"Come on and what, Sammy? 'm already fuckin' you. What more do you want."

"I hate you," Sam complains.

"Aww, I hate you too, sweetheart."

Dean is laughing in a way that sometimes irritates Sam, but right now just makes him content. And he starts to fuck Sam in earnest too, proving he's the single most perfect person on the face of the earth. He digs his fingers into Sam's hips to brace himself, hammers into Sam relentlessly. His breathing is rapid and harsh in Sam's ears.

"You look so good when you're fallin' apart," Dean says, low, in Sam's ear. "Your pretty hair all wrecked. All that goddamn muscle, all shaking and helpless."

Sam makes a small, wordless noise in the back of his throat. He needs to come so very badly.

"No wonder the monsters always wanna choke you out."

Jesus, Dean's voice is so hot it's not even fair. Sam's cock jerks, and he knows Dean can feel it. He can feel it himself; his pelvic muscles and his ass clamping down on Dean's dick involuntarily.

"You like that, Sammy?"

There are questions it's better not to answer, and this is definitely one of them.

Dean is too smart for either of their goods though, and he grips Sam's neck and squeezes. Sam tries to breathe past it, but can't. Dean's cock pounds into him, while Sam's vision sparks and grays at the edges. There's a roaring in Sam's ears, and he's dizzy from the lack of oxygen and his need to come. His cock throbs in time with the increasingly frantic thundering of his heart.

“Mmm, you do love it, don't you, Sam?”

Dean guides Sam's hand down, and Sam takes hold of himself. He only strokes twice before the heat in his groin and the buzzing in his head expand into each other and merge. Pleasure crashes over Sam in an all-encompassing rush, and he comes.

He can feel Dean holding him tight in the aftershocks, and Dean must've come too. He's not demonstrative when he orgasms, and it's hard to tell in the shower at the best of times, but he's not thrusting, and he's slipping out of Sam.

And Sam still can't breathe.

He's been choked often enough to know he's got seconds of consciousness left at best. Why hasn't Dean let him go?

Sam's lungs are on fire. His vision is a curtain of darkness and sparks. He can't hold himself upright anymore. His hands slip off the wall, and he grabs for his throat, and there's... there's nothing there. Dean isn't holding him.

He turns around towards Dean, unable to ask for help and starting to panic, when Sam's legs give out and his knees hit the tiles.

He crumples into a pile, and the shower rains on him, and the freight train of panic that comes with fatal oxygen loss bears down on him hard. Then everything's quiet. And then Sam is gone.

-*-*-

Sam gasps; a huge, desperate, rush of air. He opens his eyes, and everything looks wrong. He bolts to his feet. The hard floor under him is concrete, not bathroom tile. What sparse light there is shines down through a duct in the ceiling, cut into columns by the blades of a fan. Nausea rises in Sam's gut, and he wants to vomit. The puddle he's standing in is his own half-coagulated blood. He's still panting hard, like there's not enough air in the world, like his lungs have been empty for hours, days, like he-

He remembers.

His hand flies to his neck. The vampire bite is gone, and the skin is intact, but the pain, if anything, is worse than when he died.

"Boo!"

Sam flinches. There's a pock-marked concrete wall behind him, and he puts his back against it; one side of him protected in a fight.

“Hiya, Sam.”

Oh jesus fuck no. It's Lucifer.

Lucifer talks at him. “I don't expect you to like it- to like me,” he says, and if Sam wasn't so terrified, he'd laugh. Who does the asshole think he's kidding?

The situation doesn't improve with explanation. Sam's hand keeps straying to his neck. It hurts when he touches it, skin so tender and hot it has to be a burn- and it hurts when he doesn't touch it too, even the air against it too much to stand. He can't tell which is worse, holding his hand against the inflamed skin or not, and his stupid hindbrain keeps alternating without asking the rest of him first.

Lucifer grins at him proudly.

"It's mine," he brags, so pleased he's practically wiggling in place. He looks like some kind of deranged, sociopathic puppy; a toddler with the power of a god. "I didn't want you to be jealous."

Lucifer taps his left shoulder in illustration. "Of Dean. When Castiel raised him. You're so much better than he is, Sam. Meant for so much more."

"You. My- " Sam says and stops. It really is a burn. From Lucifer's grace.

The injured area goes all the way around the front of Sam's neck. It's swollen, with discrete edges, and now that Sam knows, he can pick out the pattern. Fingers on the left side, palm across his trachea, thumb on the right.

So Sam, he couldn't breathe because Lucifer-

He has other injuries too, other places. He doesn't want to think about it.

He starts to hyperventilate, and if he doesn't stop soon Lucifer will get irritated, and hurt him more. It would help to close his eyes, but he's too frightened to make himself do it.

The devil is in a benevolent mood though, and he talks Sam through it.

"Like I taught you; in through your nose, out through your mouth."

Lucifer taught him in the Cage, so the part before the screaming would last longer. It's ridiculous, a parody of concern, and Sam hates him. Hates him so much he can barely think. So much he almost chooses the vampires. But what would come next?

He agrees to Lucifer's terms. He limps over to the barrier, flashlight in hand, and waits.

The sick thing, the very worst thing of all- and god knows, there's plenty to choose from- is that Sam is grateful.

He's not glad to be back from the dead exactly, that would be too generous. But he doesn't want to live on a sound stage on continuous repeat either- not even a perfect one. He wants to see the real Dean. He want his family to survive the war. He wants his brother to feel as happy and safe as Dean ever does, and not put a bullet in his brain because Sam is dead. Or do one of the other, even worse things he's prone to.

Lucifer gestures, and Sam follows at his heels like a dog. They pick their way through broken chunks of concrete and rebar. The vampires stay away. The handprint on Sam's neck hurts like fire.

At the mouth of the tunnel, they walk out together into the devastated, apocalyptic spring. The light, which seemed washed out and dull when Sam arrived, is now, after being underground, so bright he can barely see. His eyes water, and he blinks a few times, and Sam and his unwanted companion start on their way. Everything is green and gray and scraggly and clinging to life by its teeth. Sam is leading the devil straight to his family, and he's horribly ashamed. The trees aren't in flower, but they're alive.


End file.
